


Remission

by Drazyrohk



Series: Touch [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drazyrohk/pseuds/Drazyrohk
Summary: 'One day at a time' tends to lose its power when every day starts and ends exactly the same. The only thing that breaks up the monotony doesn't even seem real, but Swerve doesn't want to risk letting it go.





	Remission

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This follow up to 'Touch' has been in the works for awhile. I needed to give Swerve a bit more closure than 'Closure' provided, and this is what my heart, my head and my hand provided. Thanks for reading!

“When are you closing tonight?” 

The question caught Swerve off guard for once despite the fact that he fielded it almost every night. Usually from a drunken patron or three. This time, though, it was Tailgate who was asking, and the other mini’s visor was lit up in excitement. 

Sitting on one of the stools in front of the bar, Tailgate kicked his legs and leaned his elbows on the bartop. “If you’re not getting out of here too late, did you want to come watch vids in my hab? I still have that list of recommendations you gave me and I think we should watch whatever one is your favorite.” 

The distinct feeling that Tailgate was trying to humor him welled up in Swerve. The stout mini bot drew in a slow vent before plastering a smile to his faceplates. That wasn’t the case, Swerve knew very well that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t the first time that Tailgate had invited him out to do things after hours, though it was the first time he had been invited back to the other mini’s hab suite. 

Usually it was fishing in the oil reservoir with Cyclonus along to make sure neither of them fell in. Or sitting in one of the observation decks and playing strategy games together… always with the two minis against the stoic Not-A-Decepticon. They almost always lost, but it was still fun. Sometimes they even went to the lower decks and rode around on Tailgate’s hoverboard while Cyclonus sat off to one side reading. 

“Well, I dunno. Really depends on who comes in, y’know? Some of these guys don’t know when to go home and it’s hard to herd them out when they’re so much bigger than me and have their tanks full of engex.” Swerve said, Tailgate’s visor not dimming a bit. In fact, it seemed a little brighter. 

“What if I stayed to help you chase them out?” He asked, tilting his helm to the side. “Me and Cyclonus could do it.” 

Swerve had to set down the glass he was holding very suddenly so he didn’t drop it, the metallurgist trying to make it look casual. “Uh, you don’t really have to do that. I could just tell them I’ve got somewhere to be and they might leave without fuss. I could maybe even close up a little early.” 

Tailgate made a pleased little noise and his optics squinted behind his visor. His legs kicked a bit harder and he leaned back, his EMF giving off a feeling of relief and satisfaction. “I’ll ask Cyclonus to wait, just in case!” He said as he pushed off of the stool. 

“You don’t have to trouble him. I know he doesn’t really like being bothered.” Swerve said, holding out his hands. But Tailgate was already hurrying off through the crowded bar to the table in the corner where his large, brooding companion was sitting.

Cringing inwardly, and probably outwardly too because he couldn’t help it, Swerve huffed and went back to serving the thirsty bots of the Lost Light.

Life carried on as it always had, with the exception of Swerve having friends in unexpected places that cared about him and went out of their way to make sure he knew it. It shouldn’t have been strange to have that, it was a simple thing that so many other people around him had and probably took for granted, but to Swerve it still felt odd. 

It was easier to focus on working than on what would come after, and the time passed far more quickly than Swerve expected it to. Soon, there were only a handful of very drunk patrons left to usher out, and sure enough, Cyclonus and Tailgate were there to help see that they went on their way. 

Cyclonus helped to right the chairs that had been knocked over when last call went out. Tailgate rode around on Ten’s shoulders while the he swept the floor. Swerve cleaned the used dishes and carried on idle conversations with all three of them. Well, almost all three of them. Cyclonus put a word in here or there, but for the most part let the mini bots and Ten do all the talking.

After wishing Ten a good evening and telling him to start at the usual time the next day, Swerve followed Tailgate and Cyclonus down the hall to their hab. 

“I think I found a good one. I think you might like it,” Tailgate said as he scaled Cyclonus and clung to his back. “I don’t know if you’ve seen it before, it’s called ‘Top Gun.’” 

Swerve had seen it. Many times. “Yeah, I like that one.” 

“Great!” Tailgate said with enthusiasm that couldn’t be forced. He kicked his legs and Cyclonus shifted his balance to compensate. “Don’t spoil it for me, okay?” 

“I wouldn’t dare.” Swerve said with a quick smile. Watching movies he’d seen with people who hadn’t was better than watching a movie for the first time. He could watch Tailgate and Cyclonus to see their reactions. It sounded like a wonderful way to waste time. 

“Have you seen that one, Cyclonus?” Tailgate asked, arms looping round the jet’s neck. 

“No.” Cyclonus said simply. He looked up awkwardly, trying to peer into Taligate’s face. “So I won’t spoil it for you either. Don’t fuss.” 

“I wasn’t fussing.” Tailgate muttered and gave Cyclonus a firm horn tug. The stoic soldier took the abuse without batting an optic. 

Tailgate slid down to the floor again when they reached the hab, happily bouncing up to input the code to open the door. He gestured for Swerve to go in first, and the minibot did so with a duck of his helm and a shy smile. 

The hab was always clean, and it smelled nice. A mix of Tailgate’s sweets and the polish that Cyclonus liked to use. There was a neat line of partially full engex bottles on a shelf by the window that made Swerve question why the two came into the bar so often to get drinks. There were several of Ten’s little dolls on Tailgate’s side of the room. 

It felt more like a home and less like simply a place to lay one’s helm. 

Swerve climbed onto Tailgate’s berth and his fellow minibot clamored up next to him. Cyclonus took some things from a cupboard before joining them, sitting with his back to the wall. He dropped a bag of crisps into Swerve’s lap and offered Tailgate a tall can of something and a curly straw. 

Wiggling in excitement, Tailgate fished the remote for the holoscreen from under his pillow and turned the movie on. He looked at Swerve and offered him a pulse from his field and a squint of his optics. A smile. A happy one. A friendly one. Genuine excitement. 

Swerve let the tension of the day bleed from his frame and sighed slowly, his own smile turning up the corners of his mouth as he watched the opening credits. 

It was a cheesy movie, but it was better because of that. Cyclonus enjoyed it perhaps more than Tailgate did, but Swerve figured his amusement had more to do with the shoddy flight physics than it did the jokes or the awesome soundtrack.

The credits had barely started rolling before Tailgate leaned against Cyclonus and looked at him with a softly lit visor. 

“Hey Cyclonus?” He asked. 

“Mm?” Cyclonus looked down at him in return. 

“You can be my wingman anytime.” Tailgate said. 

Swerve laughed. Deep down, he felt that familiar ache that meant he really ought to give Rung a call in the morning. He was happy for his friends, he honestly was. 

He’d just be a lot happier if he had someone to be his wingman too. 

Swerve was happy he didn’t have to walk back to his hab. Tailgate offered to let him stay the night, and sleeping cuddled to a warm frame was much nicer than a silent hab suite. Cyclonus was gone by the time they woke in the morning, but sharing a cube of fuel with Tailgate before heading out set a cheerful mood for the day at least. 

Back in his hab, Swerve did his exercises. He tidied up. Being with Tailgate and Cyclonus always gave him a bit of house envy. No matter how many things he picked up off the floor, it always felt too cluttered. He didn’t even have a roommate, he wasn’t sure how he managed a cluttered hab suite. 

Instead of sitting down to watch something on his own, as he would normally do before he had to be at work, Swerve sent a message to Rung. 

The doctor wasn’t in. Or if he was, he must have been busy. There was no immediate response. 

No use dwelling on it. 

He went to the bar instead of sitting around and waiting to hear back. There was always something that needed to be done. Swerve toyed around with drink mixes, trying to think up a clever name for tonight’s special. (The Wingman, maybe? Or the Top Gun? Or was that too obvious? Ooo, the Danger Zone!! Yes, perfect!) 

He was in the middle of perfecting the orange colour of the drink when the door opened. “We’re not open yet!” Swerve called without looking up. 

“I know.” Rung’s voice said in response, and Swerve lifted his helm in surprise. “I wanted to pop in and see you regardless. I hope that’s alright?” 

“Yeah, it is.” Swerve said. He offered Rung a smile and slid out from behind the counter. “You wanna try one?” 

“No thank you.” Rung said as he held up a servo. “No offense meant.” 

“None taken. After the whole poisoning thing, I’m not sure I blame you. Not that it stops people of course.” Swerve said with a shrug. He gestured to a table nearby and Rung nodded. They sat across from one another. Swerve kept his servos in his lap, Rung folded his arms across the top of the table. “Thanks for dropping by. I really needed company today, I think.” 

“It was no trouble at all. Would you like to talk about it?” Rung asked. 

They talked for some time. Swerve found it easier these days to talk to Rung about his feelings, about anything in general. There was never any judgement. Never any scolding. Rung listened, and then he offered support. Encouragement. 

“You seem to be saying that you feel you’re having trouble making friends, but it seems you’re doing just fine. Tailgate and Cyclonus are your friends.” Rung said after the conversation reached a lull. 

“They are. But I really feel like a third wheel, y’know?” Swerve said. “Is that selfish?” 

“Not at all.” Rung reached up to remove his glasses, his hands folding in front of him again. “There is nothing selfish about the longing you feel in your spark.” 

“I don’t want to make things awkward or strained. I don’t want to make it weird. I get that they’re my friends, sort of, and I’m kinda scared I’m going to ruin it with these thoughts.” Swerve muttered, optics lowered and fingers drumming on the table before him. “I just wish I had a wingman.” 

Since there was no way that Rung could promise to help him with that sort of thing, Swerve found the conversation ended shortly after he made the statement. He went back to work, Rung went back to his office, life continued as normal. 

It didn’t feel any better having voiced that wish. It just made it feel bigger, perhaps more real. Swerve didn’t know what to do about that. 

Work helped take his mind off of it, helped distract him. Swerve didn’t have time to dwell on things that would never happen when there were thirsty mechs around demanding his attention. The Danger Zone seemed to be a hit, even if there weren’t a lot of mechs who got the reference. 

There was one mech who seemed to like it more than everyone else. Normally Swerve would be pleased as punch to have someone so fond of his creations, but since that mech was Whirl, it made things a little less exciting. It made them quite frankly a little terrifying. A drunk Whirl wasn’t a fun Whirl, after all. 

“Hey runt. Give me another.” The demand was rife with amusement and held perhaps a hint of disgust. Maybe the disgust was imagined. Swerve couldn’t tell right now. “And make it a double.” 

“Okay,” Swerve said as he looked up at Whirl from behind the counter. “But this is the last one.” 

“Cutting me off already? I’ve barely gotten started!” Whirl narrowed his optic, leaned down towards him. “Be a pal, Swerve. Come on, you owe me.” 

There was a little voice at the back of his processor that told Swerve to call Rung again. Immediately. He felt his spark contract a bit and swallowed hard. 

“This is the last one,” Swerve insisted, with a little less certainty than before. He pinged Rung just to be on the safe side. 

“Pfft.” Whirl rolled his optic expertly. “Fine, whatever. That’s pretty uncool though. Make a drink with the word danger in the title, you can’t expect me not to like it a lot. I’m not even that drunk yet.” 

Letting out a non-committal grunt, Swerve finished with the beverage and shoved it across the counter. He didn’t bother watching Whirl take it and walk away, he just turned his back to the room and began cleaning the glasses that were piling up behind the counter. 

_You owe me._ The words bounced around in Swerve’s skull, taunting and grating. _You owe me. You owe me._

Those words repeated themselves over and over again as Swerve blindly cleaned and polished. The neat row of clean glasses grew. He heard someone say his name but it wasn’t Rung so he didn’t really acknowledge it. Someone else could make the drinks for the rest of the night, he wasn’t in the mood to engage. 

The voice became more insistent and then there was a hand on his elbow. Swerve went to shrug it off, noticed a familiar set of silver talons and stopped short. 

“I said, are you alright?” This time the voice registered. So did the concern that laced it. 

“No.” Swerve wasn’t sure what possessed him to say that. Cyclonus wouldn’t care, would he? That wasn’t like him. 

Cyclonus simply nodded, then his grip tightened enough that he could gently guide Swerve out from behind the counter. 

Where was Rung?

“Rung is handling Whirl.” Cyclonus supplied the answer and Swerve wondered if he’d spoken aloud by accident. “Don’t worry about the bar tonight, it’ll be taken care of.” 

“Where are we going?” Swerve asked. 

“Home.” Cyclonus didn’t supply anything more than that and Swerve didn’t really want to bother him by asking more questions. He kept his optics lowered and went where Cyclonus led him. “Here.” 

A door opened and Swerve heard a laugh track playing. It seemed oddly appropriate. At odds with the laughter were the arms that were suddenly being flung around him. A warm hug as a familiar opening jingle played nearby. Tailgate’s face pressed into his shoulder to nuzzle firmly as on the holoscreen a door closed and Ross delivered his signature ‘Hi.’ 

Home, Cyclonus had said. He had taken Swerve home. 

Feeling built up in Swerve until his tiny body could no longer contain it. He felt his chest constrict, his spark hammering behind his chest plates. A wail erupted from him and Tailgate’s arms tightened around him. A second set of arms took hold of both minibots and lifted them from the floor, then Swerve was being settled in Cyclonus’ lap with Tailgate still holding him. 

There was no stopping the anguish that escaped him. Swerve let it out, and it poured from his field, from his vocalizer, from his spark. 

Home. This was home. This was safe. This was love. He didn’t deserve this. 

But the last person in the world to offer this so freely, so openly would be Cyclonus and here he was cradling a messily weeping minibot in his lap. And Tailgate, who felt so deeply that he literally couldn’t contain his panic when it arose, who cared without condition, he was here crushing Swerve to his chest in his best effort to comfort him. 

Swerve wanted to ask why. He wanted to say that he couldn’t, that he wasn’t strong enough, but any words he tried to speak escaped as garbled noise that Cyclonus was quick to hush with a deep, calming rumble. When he sagged down and thought he’d be crushed beneath the weight of his emotions, Tailgate shifted his grip and pulled him back up and into his arms again. 

They were unrelenting. Swerve thought it ought to be suffocating, but maybe that was the point. Maybe that was why it was working. 

Once the wailing had subsided and turned to labored breath and hiccups, Tailgate nuzzled Swerve again. 

“He was your Emily.” He said with the sort of bright eyed certainty that only Tailgate could manage and get away with. 

Looking at Tailgate with shock, his vents hitching, Swerve let out a questioning sound.

“Whirl. He was your Emily, Swerve.” Tailgate cupped one of Swerve’s cheek with one servo, his visor bright. “He was never your Rachel.” 

“Wha-” Swerve’s vocalizer fuzzed a bit and he shook his helm as he reset it. “Why?” 

“You know,” Tailgate insisted, thumb rubbing his cheek. Emotion swelled and it was at once heavier and weightless than what Swerve had been feeling previously. “Rude, controlling, you probably would have said the wrong name at your joining-”  
“No, I get the reference.” And he loved Tailgate for it. Loved him so much it felt like he might break down again. “But why am I Ross, Tailgate?” 

“Who else would you be?” Cyclonus asked, and it was all so ridiculous, the notion that the stoic jet had been paying any attention to the stupid sitcoms they watched when they were together. 

“That’s really mean.” Swerve’s protest wasn’t terribly genuine. 

“Then why are you smiling?” Tailgate asked, his thumb moving a touch lower to drag across Swerve’s bottom lip. 

“Cause I’ve got friends.” Swerve leaned into the touch upon his cheek, the tension finally released from his frame. “And I think I’m gonna be okay.”


End file.
